


Like a Coat from the Cold

by dizzy



Category: Glee RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2016-09-23
Packaged: 2018-08-16 21:44:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8118625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dizzy/pseuds/dizzy
Summary: Because Mav is having a shitty week, and wanted fic where Chris stole something of Darren’s from set when the show ended.





	

There's a cardigan, ratty from years of being well-worn and well-loved, draped across the back of Chris's chair in his office. 

He keeps it there because sometimes there's a draft. This house doesn't hold the heat as well as his one in Los Angeles used to - or maybe it's that this house actually needs heat once in a while. In the dead of winter he feels in his bones and hears it in the rattle of the slightly loosened pain. He can start a fire in the main room or burrow under blankets in the bedroom but here in his little cubby hole of an office, where he does all of his writing, the cardigan is what he slips himself into when he feels the goosebumps start to rise. 

It smells like him, like the house. He only washes it every few weeks. It's gray with stripes on the arms and buttons going down, third one from the bottom missing since an incident with a far too curious cat years ago. He misses that cat, but he still has the cardigan and it's more his now than it's ever been. 

* 

Upstate New York fits them well. There's peace and quiet and no one gives a fuck what they get up to. The people are friendly but not cloyingly so. They hike a lot, with the dog. They swim and go for runs. Chris won't allow a treadmill in the house. He's had enough of those to last a lifetime. If his waistline grows in winter when it's too cold to suffer for the exercise, it's worth it. 

He can blame Darren, anyway. Darren's the one who decided his midlife crisis should involve learning how to be a master chef. Chris is happy to be fed and give his critique. (And, should the attempt be a total failure, the dog is happy to do the same.) 

(Not a midlife crisis, Darren would say. I'm not dying at seventy. 

You're older than me, Chris would say back. And you always will be.) 

The big city is a short flight. Darren goes more than Chris. He gets restless for a faster pace and he'll slip off for a week or two. Chris never minds all that much. He likes the solitude sometimes. He likes letting Darren go knowing he has the power to call him back home if he needs. But he doesn't usually need. 

*

Their life doesn't feel like a romance novel. 

They don't slow dance in the moonlight. Sometimes they sleep in separate bedrooms, because Darren snores and Chris's insomnia only grows with age. They argue over the dishes and bicker over the how the laundry is done. They spend long hours in separate rooms and sometimes they just don't have much to say. 

It's domesticity in practice, as soothing and worn as any old item of clothing. Sharing a life together in this capacity is not a first for either of them but between them still savored with a level of contentment previously unmatched. They fought and struggled and waded through years of shit for the right to be boring together, and it doesn't often slip their minds. 

* 

"A peace offering, my good sir?" Darren sticks his head in the office door. There's a steaming mug of tea in his hands, the spicy scent of the chai Chris likes best. 

"Aw, you do care," Chris says, half turning in his chair. His glasses are slipped down his nose and the sleeves of the cardigan are shoved up his arms. It's always been a little loose. "Wait, what do you need a peace offering for, anyway?" 

Darren grins. "I ate the rest of those cookies you like so much. I swear I thought we had another bag of them." 

"Darren!" Chris groans. "That's my favorite late night snack." 

"I'll go to the store tomorrow." Darren puts the cup of tea down on the desk beside Chris and reaches out to straighten the collar of the cardigan where it's gone weird. "Can't believe you still have this thing." 

"I like it," Chris says, already turning back to his computer screen. "Shut up." 

"Didn't say a word." Darren puts his hands on Chris's shoulders, rubbing slightly. "Just, you know. Kind of sweet that you still wear it. That you kept it." 

"Don't let the neighbor's kids hear you call me sweet," Chris says. "They're convinced I'm the meanest old man in the world because I won't let them throw rocks at the wall of the shed or pull the dog's tail." 

The nearest neighbor is over two miles away, but the kids are hard pressed for fun things to do when the internet goes down. It's an unfortunate coincidence for them that Chris is also at his crankiest without good wifi, and that those are the occasions on which they meet. 

Darren's sure he'll hear all about the encounter in full over dinner. He's thinking roast, something hearty since it's so cold. He finishes the impromptu massage with a squeeze of his fingers. "I won't reveal your gooey marshmallow center to anyone, promise," Darren says. 

"Good. Now get out of my hair," Chris says, pushing his glasses up his nose again. He's already tuning Darren out. 

* 

It's half past eleven. Downstairs a fire crackles and the scent of dinner still lingers in the air. The television is on still but no one's really watching it. Chris is outside with the dog one last time before bed. Darren's on the phone to his mother, taking advantage of the three hour time difference. If Chris is in bed before he's done Chris will leave the door cracked open in an invitation for Darren to join when he's ready. There are a hundred tiny signs of life and love littered around the home: leftovers from dinner separated out into tomorrow's lunch the fridge, a pile of mail with both their names on the table by the front door, framed photos on the mantle... a cardigan fallen into a heap of well-worn cloth on the seat of Chris's office chair.


End file.
